


Psychomachia

by Ani



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Historical References, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Slow Burn, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 23:53:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19261714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ani/pseuds/Ani
Summary: "You have committed acts of grace," Aziraphale says. "I’ve seen it. Virtues, as plain as day. Only… they weren’t plain at the time.""And you’ve sinned," Crowley says. Grins. "Rather a lot, sssometimesss."





	Psychomachia

**_Humanitas, Invidia_ **

 

“Crawley.”

“Aziraphale. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

The angel looks despairingly at the dead body, the blood soaked into the sand. “There are important lessons to be learned. I’m to pass on the message. But this - oh. The poor boy.”

“It wasn’t me,” the demon says. He says it first to automatically pass off blame, in case the angel is in the mood for a good smiting, but when Aziraphale’s eyes widen he says it again because it’s true. “I mean, I said a few things about the respective sizes of sacrifices, but I didn’t… I didn’t suggest he  _ kill _ him.”

“Murder had not yet been given a name.” Aziraphale sighs. “There is still much of the world to name.”

“Yeah well - uhm, Aziraphale. It was your sword.”

His head snaps up, astonishment writ in his face.

“The, ah, flaming one. It’s not on fire anymore but it went pow, right into his spinal cord there. Cain took off with it if you’re wanting to get it back.”

“I’m just supposed to mark him as dangerous to others.”

“Sword might do that on its own, frankly.”

“No. No, I must get it. They weren’t supposed to have it in the first place.” Aziraphale frowns. “I’d never have given it to them if I had thought - they aren’t supposed to have power over life and death, not for other humans, that’s  _ our _ -” his mouth snaps shut.

“Right, right. The power and vengeance of the Lord.” Crawley shrugs. “Strange things the humans have been making.”

“If he still has it, I’m taking it back,” Aziraphale says firmly. 

Crawley nods his agreement, and the angel stalks off in the direction he’s pointing, across the desert. Crawley doesn’t know yet, but the sword never is recovered. He never asks, over the next few thousand years, whether Aziraphale couldn’t bear to take it away after he marks Cain or if it had simply already vanished into the unknown hands of a growing humanity.

On that day, he just watches the angel leave, and stares again at Abel’s body, and buries him under the sand.

  
  
  
  
  


**_Superbia, Humilitas_ **

 

“How was it then?”

“Cold and wet,” Aziraphale sighs, settling into the seat next to him and taking an offered grape. “But all sufficed. My mission was successful and yours… well. He stole the sheep.”

“Now look at you!” Crowley says, nudging him with his elbow, which Aziraphale frowns at. “Temptation isn’t  _ too _ hard, is it.”

“Ah, see, in the stealing of the sheep, he had to go abroad at night, and on his way back he discovered a woman in labor. Helped her get home and the child was born warm and safe.”

“Ugh,” Crowley says. “Right. Be like you to twist it.”

“The universe bends towards justice,” he pronounces.

“You did a good job then,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale preens a bit, smiling and taking another grape.

“It is my nature. Quite a crowd tonight.”

“Hamlet’s still showing,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale gasps, looking at the press of people anew. “Second run, it got so popular.”

“Oh but - Crowley!”

“‘Twas nothing,” he says, and takes the handkerchief of grapes away before the angel eats them all. “Still too gloomy, if you ask me.”

  
  


 

 

 

**_Patientia, Ira_ **

 

Crowley takes off and drinks himself under a table for three weeks.

It doesn’t help. Immortal beings have  _ very _ good memories.

So he goes back to Spain and walks into the dungeon, and in the blood and screams transforms into a creature of darkness that brings forth new terrors and the nightmare shadows. He does not kill. They probably deserve it. He does not rescue those chained to the walls. That would get him in trouble.

He just picks up all the pain and shoves it back onto the torturers until they are screaming and tearing their eyes into extraocular gashes. He sloshes the horror around until the very stones are trembling with it and the Inquisition is on their knees, going mad, seeing the fires of hell.

That will buy the prisoners a week or two, at least.

He leaves and finds a new bar and starts drinking again. It is in this state that Aziraphale finds him, and carries him somewhere quiet, and sits with Crowley for the weeks he needs to cry and cry and cry. When the keening is especially bad, Aziraphale holds his hand, and does not demand a single explanation.

  
  


 

 

 

**_Industria, Acedia_ **

 

The knocking continues until he’s angry enough to open the door.

“ _ What _ ?” Crowley snaps.

“Good afternoon,” Aziraphale chirps. “Are you… all right?”

“Yeah. Sssleepin’.  _ What _ .”

“How long have you been asleep?”

“Dunno.” Crowley squints at the sun, wishing he’d thought to grab his sunglasses. “What year isss it?”

“And with that question I have arrived at my answer. Dear boy, have you been sleeping  _ most _ of this century away?”

“It’sss boring,” Crowley answers him. “Dreadful century. Can’t wait to be rid of it.”

“Well.” Aziraphale clasps his hands together, peering over Crowley’s shoulder at the mud shack he’s taken over and the rumpled blankets on the feather mattress. Crowley looks back too, disappointed to see the bed is suddenly made, and snaps his fingers to throw the bedding back into a slunched pile.

“I don’t want to bother you,” Aziraphale says. “I’m here for business.”

“What’sss that?”

“You see… ah, well, I’m going about and performing miracles, blessing the flock, bringing light into the dark places, the usual bit, but I’m… also supposed to also be thwarting evil, and, well, it’s been harder to provide the right notes for Upstairs. With evil napping.”

“Ah.” Crowley nods. “Yup. Sure Downssstairsss is wondering where my notesss are. Have to ssspread the temptationsss and wilesss.”

“So will you come out?”

Crowley takes a deep breath and then blurts it out as a sibilant sigh. “Nah. Going back to ssleep. Jussst make up my evil. You know my ssstyle.”

Aziraphale grabs the door - well, the bundle of sticks masquerading as his door - before it can slam shut.

“Crowley,” he says, and purses his lips. “Crowley, did you know, there’s a new painter, just three cities over. She  _ transforms _ the sunset on paper. I’ve never seen anything like it. Won’t you come with me, just to see that? And then you can come here and I won’t bother you for another hundred years.”

Crowley leans against the doorframe. His human body, now used to slumber, only wants to collapse back into a pile of limbs. But the angel looks so hopeful, so pleading.

“Yeah. All right. As long as we don’t have to travel by horssse.”

  
  


 

 

 

**_Caritas, Avaritia_ **

 

“They will find freedom,” Aziraphale intones, joining Crowley at the small table and setting down a jar of wine. Crowley grandly pulls out the jar he’s brought, and they both smile; the wine of the pharaohs was, they’d both agreed, the absolute best so far.

“Likely,” Crowley says. “I’ve been chatting with the Pharaoh, of course, but all those frogs and boils. Turn off anyone. Was it you who put the baby in the basket?”

“Merely made sure of his safe travel,” Aziraphale beams. “Tonight is the big event.”

“What’s that?”

“The march to the red sea.”

“Oh, how’s that?”

“Well.” Aziraphale falters. “First, the, ah, death of the firstborn. But then the Pharaoh lets them go, you see, and in the desert there’s going to be-”

“What, all the firstborn?”

“Of the Egyptians. Yes.”

Crowley groans. “The babies again. The babies. Fucking bless it, why do you-”

“It’s all part of the Great Plan, Crowley. You know this.”

Crowley waves the words away with his hand. He’s allowed, to doubt like this. He’s allowed as a demon to question. Aziraphale, a Principality, merely shakes his head and folds his hands in his lap.

“All those kids out there,” Crowley whispers.

“They’ll be all right. In the end, I mean. After.”

He grabs the wine to start pouring. It’ll be a good night to have a lot of it.

“You know,” Aziraphale says hesitantly, “before wine, that’s - that’s rather good grape juice. If the alcohol was miraculously gone.”

“Be a lot of small children who’d appreciate some juice tonight,” Crowley says.

The look out the unpainted door frame.

Neither of them drink any wine produced for pharaohs again.

  
  


 

 

 

**_Temperantia, Gula_ **

 

How  _ both _ of them got stuck on this ship is an incident Crowley would prefer to never speak of again, but the truth of the matter is that they are both on a cruise ship  _ after _ their respective duties were finished in minutes and yet many long weeks _ before _ they return to any land. Neither of them realized this until just too late past shore, despite the ship’s announcements being quite clear on the fact, if either of them had paid attention. 

Crowley decides the ship will suddenly have to return to dock. It’ll ruin a lot of vacations, and the general misery is an excellent byproduct.

Aziraphale decides the ship is going to have excellent weather and make shore in no time, at a lovely little island where love was sure to bloom and joy sure to be had.

They both decide this at the same time, and the conflicting miracles had produced a very large wave, a sudden roar of laughter through every baffled human on the ship, and then absolutely nothing.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale had said.

“Look, I’m getting off this boat,” Crowley had insisted. “Just hold off for a minute.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale had said, hesitantly. “If you’ll hear me out. I do think, if we consider it, this provides some excellent opportunities we would be fools to avoid.”

“Excellent opportunities? What, angel, are you just begging to play shuffleboard? Should I get you one of those cocktails with the little umbrella and a sunhat? Oh, Dark Abyss, you  _ would _ wear a sunhat.”

“Have you had one of those drinks?” Aziraphale had asked. “The rum is quite nice. There’s a lot of it onboard. And an endless buffet of lobster and fresh pineapple.”

Crowley had turned his body nearly sideways considering, and now they are in a conveniently available suite, discovering the new human invention of room-service.

“Slike - slike - slike I  _ am _ the cello. He made the cello like me. I was all stalking around being a demon and he thought ohhhhhhh, like yoooooou, all dark and sexy and that’s the cello.”

“That’s not what happened!” Aziraphale says, somewhere close to but not quite on the floor, through his flood of giggles.

“It’s  _ basically _ history.”

“All dark and -  _ dear boy _ , the only music infernal enough to be you is the electric guitar.”

“That can be me too,” Crowley agrees, and then they both set off again, and Crowley thinks Aziraphale’s idea of laying down is a very good one because between the boat and the rum he’s a bit confused about the direction of gravity.

“S’almost gone,” he observes, picking up what he believes is the most recent bottle.

“We can order another one,” Aziraphale points out. “On that telly - tello - the call box.”

“The  _ call box _ ,” Crowley howls. “Get another one! Get those oysters too!”

“Hello,” Aziraphale says to the phone, and that, somehow, works.

  
  


 

 

 

**_Castitas, Luxuria_ **

 

Stuffed and sloshed, they leave the Ritz and walk slowly through the park, watching the humans rush and go, taking their day for granted. As they should be.

“I still can’t believe,” Aziraphale says, and he means, all of it. Crowley nods. This has been their major theme for the last few hours but it remains true.

“So are you going to… run the bookstore?” he asks. Shoves his hands into his pockets and looks carefully not at Aziraphale.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well I mean - we’re off the hook. No more tempting, no more blessing. No more errands. What are you going to do with all that time?”

“Oh. Oh dear.” Aziraphale says. “I somehow didn’t think of it like that.”

“Just occurred to me too,” Crowley lies. There are some things he lies to Aziraphale about. Only what he has to.

“I do want to keep performing miracles. Make the world better, it - it’s still important. I’m still good.” He says this last part so quietly, so resolutely, that Crowley does something he never has.

He reaches out and takes Aziraphale’s hand.

“You’re still good,” he says. “A bit of a bastard. Still good.”

Aziraphale has touched him many times, of course. Angels are tactile. It is how they lay their blessings. Chaste, simple touches. Demons touch too but not… in those ways. So Crowley has skirted touching Aziraphale entirely. The angel now looks at their hands, and smiles, and it is such a sad, poignant smile that Crowley squeezes his hand too.

“We’re free now,” Crowley says. “We can do anything. Go anywhere.”

“Like humans.” Aziraphale stops, and turns to face Crowley in the garden. “A long time ago, I told you that angels and demons don’t have free will. Do you think… could I have been wrong?”

“I think we were both a bit wrong, over time,” Crowley says magnanimously. But Aziraphale isn’t moving. He’s staring at Crowley, rather desperately, and Crowley’s stupid human heart starts beating rapidly.

“You have committed acts of grace,” Aziraphale says. “I’ve seen it. Virtues, as plain as day. Only… they weren’t plain at the time.”

“And you’ve sinned,” Crowley says. Grins. “Rather a lot, sssometimesss.”

“Angels can’t sin.” Aziraphale looks broken, and desperate. Still lost. Still wanting back in. Crowley remembers how that feels.

“ _ Castitas _ ,” he offers. “Purity. Abstinence. You were never good at that one, were you angel? You didn’t want to abstain from the world. You wanted to live in it. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Aziraphale gasps, and a light of grace and understanding fills his blue eyes. “That’s what you offered, wasn’t it? That was the apple.” 

“We all just wanted the world,” Crowley says quietly.

“You can’t…” his throat bobs. “You can’t tempt me like that too. I won’t Fall.”

“No, angel. You won’t. But… God made the world, didn’t She? Maybe She wants us to live in it.”

“Ineffable.” Aziraphale says. 

And sighs. 

It is the same sound of a loss of weight that he makes when his wings come out. 

He nods to himself. “Right then. That’s that.”

“That’s that.” 

“You and me, together, in the world. For the rest of our days. And it’s more than enough.”

“It is,” Crowley agrees. He savors the words again.  _ You and me. Together. For the rest.  _ He realizes, bless it all, that tears are coming to his eyes and that absolutely cannot happen, it’s what they already decided, just nicely said, and -

“You always went faster than me, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “But I think I’m caught up now.” He draws in a breath. Smiles that silly, pure, stupid smile of his. “Do you know the opposite of  _ castitas _ ?”

“ _ Luxuria _ ,” Crowley replies automatically, and then the angel kisses him.

 

 

 

 

 

_ But already my desire and my will _

_ were being turned like a wheel, all at one speed, _

_ by the Love which moves the sun and the other stars. _

**Author's Note:**

> Psychomachia, written by Aurelius Clemens Prudentius, introduced the seven virtues as opposite the seven deadly sins.
> 
> The poem at the close is Paradiso, Canto XXXIII, lines 142-145.


End file.
